Maddness and Bones

Maddness and Bones by Maxwell Blue

"Delusions of grandeur," detective Michael Duncan repeated while walking alongside of his best friend and fellow detective John Benson. Benson was the senior detective by about nine years. He wore a gray tweed jacket with suede packets on his sleeves. His partner, Duncan, wore a pair of Lucky Brand jeans with a charcoal jacket.

Washed in an unnatural yellow light they both walked down a long hospital corridor. The white tiled floors they were badly worn and the bone white walls of the corridor needed a fresh coat of paint. They were heading up to a new case as they walked and talked about a case that started a few hours ago.

"That’s what the doctor wrote in Bert Johnson’s chart." Benson said. Benson played things low key and didn’t get caught up in details like Duncan did.

"He said he was God?" Duncan said stopping in his tracks. 

"And then some.” Benson said looking over his shoulder. He gave his partner a knowing glance. “He is bipolar after all."

“Right,” Duncan said looking a little lost. This was missing from his notes so he quickly opened his notepad and jotted this missing bit of information down. “And what was the receptionist’s statement?”

"The receptionist said Dr. Sanderson was alive before Johnson showed up. And when Dr. Sanderson didn't come out for the next scheduled appointment the receptionist went into his office to check up on him and found the psychiatrist dead with a letter opener jabbed into his neck." Benson said.

"A letter opener?" Duncan said catching up to partner. “That’s an odd one.”

"Yeah. The thing was shaped like a katana sword." Benson said. Looking straight ahead towards the approaching doorway.

"Not the sort of thing someone would pick up at an office supply store. You think it was premeditated," Duncan said hazarding a guess.

"I don't know about that, but Johnson left a note," Benson said. “It said ‘There can be only one’”

“What?” Duncan said, not believing his own ears.

"There can be only one," Benson said stressing the word ‘one’.

“Isn’t that line from a movie or some TV show?” Duncan said brushing his dark hair back with his right hand.

“That wouldn’t surprise me,” Benson said.

Pushing their way through double stainless steel doors Duncan and Benson walked into the crime scene. They were greeted by eight police officers. Most of them looked like they have been chewing the fat a long while, standing around the crime scene that was marked off with yellow tape. Duncan and Benson were both familiar with the morgue. They considered it a home away from home, a second office to say the least. Working homicide always had one foot in the morgue. But this was the first time a double homicide started where all cases ultimately ended.

“It must be a slow night to have so many officers around.” Duncan said, gesturing towards a group of officers against the far wall near the Morgue Refrigerator units.

“Yes sir. It is one of those nights,” Taylor, the lead officer, said.

“The way I heard it all the legwork has been done and you are about to close the case.” said Duncan.

“Yes sir.” Officer Taylor said looking over his shoulder at the other seven officers. “That about sums it up.”

Taylor was a little too happy with himself Benson thought. “But you have run into a small problem?” Benson questioned Taylor with a smile. Benson knew Taylor was holding something back.

“The problem is…there seems to be…no motive. We have no idea to why the two dieners killed themselves.” said Taylor putting his hands into his pockets.

Two men dressed in lab coats were in a death embrace on the checkered non-slip floor, surrounded in bloody dissecting instruments: bone cutters, chisels, scissors and knives. From the massive pool of blood it was hard to judge which wounds were fatal and whose blood was whose.

“Right. The medical examiner’s employees. Don’t dieners clean up after autopsies; they usually don’t leave this kind of mess,” Duncan deadpanned. “Well, if it is not money it is a good bet it was sex.” Duncan said, shooting out an empty statement in the way of a little levity.

“I didn’t think about that,” Taylor said matter-of-factly missing Duncan veiled attempt at humor.

“What do we have in the way of drugs or medical supplies?” Benson asked moving the conversation along.

“Some of this equipment is worth thousands of dollars, but it is all owned by the hospital. I checked with management and apparently it was hospital policy to restrict all movement of tools and equipment on or off of hospital grounds.” Taylor said.

“I’m reminded about the case where a diener was fired for stealing body bags and trying to sell them on eBay," Duncan said.

“That’s being taken care of. The medical examiner is checking the inventory as we speak. A complete account will be filed in a couple of hours,” Taylor said.

“Drugs?” said Duncan

“We didn’t find any on them. Not even a bottle of vitamin C.” said Taylor

“Access to medical supplies?” Duncan said

“Management said it would be down right strange for autopsy technicians to be near anything meant for the living. The cafeteria is the closest they would get, anywhere else they’d stick out like a pair of sore thumbs,” Taylor said.

Detective Benson rubbed the bottom of this chin and thought the situation over. None of the pieces were fitting together and it was starting to frustrate him; that and the fact that he had not eaten all day.

“One lead we have not checked up on is a complaint from a Sean Green.” Taylor said. “Green had an altercation with one of the dieners two days ago. He claimed that a diener removed bones from his sister’s arm.” After checking his notes Taylor said, “Mary Green. She was killed in a ten car pileup on I-17 two days ago.”

“Yeah, I recall the pileup. It blocked all the northbound lanes of traffic for nearly four hours,” Duncan said, thinking out loud.

“Those bones have got to be worth something to someone, that’s the only thing that makes any sense,” Benson said.

“Detectives, I have something that you should see.” Officer Lepro said from across the room. Lepro was able to isolate clean footage from a surveillance video two days ago. One of the dieners was shown handing a package to someone off camera and in return receiving what appeared to have been a large amount of cash.

Benson took a seat at the surveillance station and played the grainy VHS video footage back frame by frame; over and over again, as he replayed the video he kept wondering why the hospital doesn’t spend some decent money on some current equipment. Then he found something. A gold lapel pin featuring the helping hands emblem.

“Oh my God! The son of a bitch is a doctor.” Benson said as he sprung to his feet. Benson never trusted doctors, especially after his wife Nora died three years ago. And he sadly remembered the painful fight that continued after her death with BOMAX (Board of Medical Examiners) and her doctor. Two years of legal bills and meetings just so Nora’s doctor could get the proverbial slap on the wrist, barely a hiccup on the doctor’s career. There were a lot of people playing God these days he thought.

“Are you sure, John?” Duncan said speaking in hushed tones.

“Yeah,” Benson frowned. “See that pin.” Benson said pointing at the screen. Sure enough there was a lapel pin on a dark blue sports jacket.

Duncan looked hard, but he was having trouble making it out.

“That pin is only given to doctors that donate time and money to the children’s hospital. Nora’s doctor wore the same pin. I would know it anywhere. See how the basketball is really a diamond. That’s not glass. It’s got to be worth at least a couple hundred bucks.”

Duncan thought it best not to say anything.

Before Duncan and Benson could make their way to the parking lot Duncan got a call from Officer Taylor who informs him that they are both needed in the Emergency Room. Apparently it had to do with the Bert Johnson case.

“Can you direct me to a patient?” Duncan said, talking to a nurse juggling an armful of charts. “Adam Frost?”

“Exam room three.” The nurse said nodding her head over to the next room.

Mr. Frost was hurt in a bad way. He was awaiting surgery. His right arm and both his legs were broken. Mrs. Frost sat at his side squeezing his left hand.

“Mr. Frost I am detective Michael Duncan and this is my partner John Benson. We are investigating your hit and run case.” Duncan said.

“I’m Elizabeth Frost and this is my husband Adam.” Mrs. Frost stood up and shook both Duncan’s and Benson’s hands.”

“Are you up to speaking with us, Mr. Frost?” Duncan said.

“I am,” Adam said with a grimace.

“Are you sure honey?” Elizabeth said rubbing her husband’s shoulder.

“I’m okay.” Adam said with a sigh.

“Did you see the man that hit you?” Duncan said.

“Yes.” Adam said. “He was driving an Escalade. Black. I can’t tell you the plate number. I didn’t get a look at it. My vision was really blurry at the time when my head hit the pavement. It’s still blurry—a little.”

“Could this be the man?” Duncan said as he handed a photo to Adam from his vest pocket.

“Jesus Christ that’s the guy,” Adam said. “How did you know it was him?”

“It was just a hunch.” Duncan said.

“Another hit and run?” Elizabeth said.

“We’re going to have an officer placed at your room.” Duncan said.

“I don’t think I am in any danger.” Adam said. “If he wanted me dead I would be dead.”

“Why do you say that?” Benson said.

“Because he stopped his car, walked over to me and what was left of my bike; then he looked down at me like I was some wild game and pinned a note onto my chest.” Adam said.

“There is no mention of a note in the police report.” Benson said.

“That’s because I crumpled it up and threw it away. It said ‘God doesn’t make mistakes.’” Adam said with a great deal of anger in his voice.

“That sounds like our boy.” Duncan said.

After leaving the hospital Duncan and Benson got called out to check on an abandoned car. It was Bert Johnson’s car. It was spotted resting at the bottom of the Arizona canal near Scottsdale Road. Benson supervised as the tow truck driver attached a hitch to the 2003 Honda Civic.

“I read in paper recently how the Arizona Canal is the center of Scottsdale’s redevelopment. Realtors are calling the land there waterfront property, but in reality it’s really an irrigation ditch. According to the article people have found rusted dirt bike, dead horses and shopping carts when the ditch is sun bake dry.” Duncan said while look down at the silver car that looked nearly new despite the recently harsh treatment from it owner. “I suppose this is Johnson’s idea of destroying incriminating evidence.” Duncan said, pointing towards the Honda Civic.

“Clearly,” Benson said. “We are not dealing with a mastermind here. We should have nabbed him by now.”

“If Johnson was seen driving an Escalade two hours ago chances are good that it would have been called in if it were stolen. And far as we know no one has reported a black Escalade missing.” Duncan said.

“So you’re thinking that Johnson took the Escalade from someone he knows.” Benson said reaching for his cell phone. After a quick call to headquarters Benson had the information he needed. “It turns out you were right. Bert Johnson has a father named Jack Johnson. Jack Johnson owns a black Escalade. And get this, Jack Johnson is an orthopedic surgeon.” Benson said.

“What are the chances that the two cases are related?” Duncan said. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

“Not even you are that lucky.” Benson said watching the Civic being pulled to street level.

“Detectives,” Officer Taylor shouted “I found something you should see in the backseat!”

“I’ll take a look.” Duncan said leaving his partner on the curb. He instantly knew what officer Taylor was talking about. With a gloved hand Duncan pulled out a human bone from the Civic’s backseat. It looked like it was from a forearm but it was grossly misshaped. “Maybe I am luckier that you think,” Duncan said laughing.

* * *

In an effort to track Dr. Jack Johnson down Detectives Duncan and Benson were led to Sky Harbor International airport. Terminal four.

“Okay laughing boy,” Benson said. “What was the flight number again?”

“Southwest 832, leaving Phoenix to Las Vegas.” Duncan said. “That’s the information I got from Dr. Johnson answering service. There’s the gate on the left hand side,” pointing out gate twenty-two.

“Take another look at his photo,” Benson said.

“Nice photo. You print this off his website?” Duncan said

“Yeah. Okay, Just take a good look and help me find him.” Benson said.

“He’s probably running late. You know how some doctors are.” Duncan said

“There he is, com'on” Benson said as he and his partner briskly walked over to Dr. Johnson.

Dr. Jack Johnson was dressed in a blue sports jacket, brown slacks and a cherry red tie, but Benson’s eyes were fixated on the doctor’s lapel pin.

“Hello Dr. Johnson,” Benson said. “Nice lapel pin you have there.”

Dr. Johnson took a step backward. “Do I know you?”

“I am detective John Benson and this is my partner Michael Duncan,” gesturing to Duncan with one arm. “We would like to ask you a couple of questions.”

“Sure,” Dr. Johnson said.

“Do you know where your son is?”

“He just dropped me off. He is probably still in the parking garage” Dr. Johnson said.

“Is he driving your Escalade?” Benson said while reaching for his cell phone.

“Yes. He told me he was having some car trouble.” Dr. Johnson said.

While Benson called the information in Duncan asked Dr. Johnson if he was in the market for bones.

“I use bones in my talks. That is where I am going now, to a medical conference in
Las Vegas.” Dr. Johnson said.

“So is that your bone collection?” Duncan said pointing to a small suitcase next to the doctor’s feet.

“You could say that,” Dr. Johnson said.

“Do you know any dieners, doctor?” Duncan said.

“I know a lot of people.” Dr. Jack Johnson said.

And that was all the doctor had to say.